Nostalgic
by CassiopeianStar
Summary: Mackenzie has a secret: she is a genius. Also, she can't remember her childhood. But then she and her aunt move to Roseville, and she finds herself confronted by a past that haunts her at every turn and the Gallagher Girls who may have learned her secret.


_This is my first story-please keep that in mind when reading. Also, I would appreciate reviews _immensely_ as they would help me improve my writing so you all enjoy the story more. Thank you sooo much for reading! ~Cassie_

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I didn't mean for it to happen. Not here; not _now_. Not on my _first day in town_. We're new to Virginia, my aunt and I. New to Roseville, too. It's our twenty-sixth move in the past seven years together. And just a few hours ago, in the street, I think I gave myself away.

Let me explain.

I am Mackenzie. Mackenzie Anne Benson. And I pride myself on my ability to appear absolutely average.

After all, I have an overbite—and that just _screams_ 'typical tween girl!' And then there are my glasses, with their purple metal frames that rest right above a layer of dusky brown freckles. I think it's the glasses that really do it—they give me that "awkward" look, along with my frazzled brown hair. You know Ms. Frizzle's—from _The Magic School Bus_? Her hair. That's what mine is like.

If there's any part of me that truly threatens to give me away, it _is_ my superior intellect. I can break into iambic pentameter at will—or tell you, in my most serious of tones, "One must be superior to humanity in power, in loftiness of soul, in contempt." But I don't.

Because to do so would be to give up what place I've managed to create for myself in society. I'm an orphan, you see—I don't remember my father. And my mother… she died when I was young. I was lucky though—I ended up with an aunt who floats around, moving constantly. She's nice, I guess. She's out more often than not. I'm not sure what she does, really, but she'll disappear for weeks without a word and then come back. Then she'll tell me to pack, and we'll be off again. Moving.

I'm always the new girl. And acting normal… it helps. It helps me fit in a bit, and never be so completely left alone. After all, there _are_ only two choices:

1) Be myself. And that's never an option. Because then either I would be socially ostracized, _or_ I would be the center of attention. And I don't want to risk being the center of anything. Because to be a cynosure is to risk questioning, and then people may find out about… my past. And I can't ever appear weak. _Ever_.

2) Hide myself. My abilities, my knowledge. And that's what I choose. Because then nobody notices me, and I'm still ignored. Except then I don't risk exposure.

Exposure. That word makes me shudder, dread crawling up my spine. It's what happened to—

This journal, I keep it, I guess, to keep myself sane. So that even when I have to put up with the society which suffocates me even as it masks me, I have somewhere to turn to. But some things—like how I grew up—are too much, even for me to write down.

Those are secrets for my own mind. Nothing anybody must know. _I_ am a mere orphan. A neglected, twelve year old girl.

Or at least, I try to be.

Anyways, now that we're done with this introduction-of-sorts, I should continue. I was walking to the grocery to get some ice cream—good for after a long, tiring car ride—when I heard a bunch of private school girls talking, as they walked down the street.

_I was so stupid_.

I don't know what made me do it. It must've been my exhaustion from the long drive, or maybe it's the air here, but one of the girls was saying, "that's still just nine thousand three hundred eighty-four times eight thousand four hundred ninety-five… which is seventy nine million seven hundred seventeen thousand…."

"Eighty."

It's almost as if they'd rehearsed it, all heads swiveling simultaneously towards me. The girl-who'd-been-speaking's mouth dropped open into a perfect 'O,' and the other two exchanged these… _looks_. Thank God though that I'm not going to the private school I would hate to go to school Monday only to find out that everyone had already heard about me, the awkward-mathematical-genius.

Anyways.

Finally, the girl whom I had interrupted had composed herself, lips drawing together into a thin line. Then: "Hi… do you live around here? I don't recognize you." Of course she didn't—I was new. I put my head down, glancing at my feet, mind spinning as I tried to shuffle away—around her. _She was talking to me! A stranger. Of _all_ the things that could've happened…._

And then, suddenly, I could sense her stiffen. And a voice behind us drawled, "hello… _dears_." A hand was on my shoulder, warm, maybe. The voice seemed amused—at me or the girl, I don't know. My insides churned, crawling with terror and disgust and just this fear.

Fear.

Panic. And my heart was thumping in my chest, _bump, ba-dump, ba-dump_, as I felt myself freeze all over, every part of me tingling. _Fight or flight response_. Deep breaths. I closed my eyes.

I hadn't spoken to anyone in so long. Not my aunt. Not my peers. Not a conversation, ever. Always me listening. Never, ever replying. I think he realized, too, as I tensed, as if I could just shatter into a million pieces. And then my mind raced through my memory of seeing the girls, his appearance, and I turned.

"You're wired." It was a realization that struck a chord within me. Horror numbed me, as I remembered my mother readjusting her comms unit even as she finished brushing her hair. And just like that, I ran.

I ran hard, and fast, everything within me clattering around about to burst and tumble out. I could hear footsteps coming after me at first, but then… nothing. And that's what worries me, I guess.

Who were they, to be doing that kind of math? To have comms units?

And who am I, to have walked straight into the path of danger from the moment I set foot here?


End file.
